Sleep in Spite of Thunder
by Justmyimagination99
Summary: a short story for The Dark War, an original story - The eastern tower is tolling the bells of war. King Dayneson must make a decision: will he command his people to fight? Meanwhile, the merciless Felbaines are approaching on the morning horizon...


**Wow, I can't believe I'm actually submitting a story! Finally! Ok, so it's just a short story, but whatever :) I intend to insert this into one of my stories, The Dark War. FYI, this is my FIRST submission, so comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated! Hope you like it! **

**–Justmyimagination99**

**P.S. The bold phrases are phrases taken from _Macbeth_, in case any one recognizes them :) These phrases are copyrighted to good ol' William Shakespeare.**

Sleep in Spite of Thunder

A great bell tolled in the eastern tower. The low, metallic peal rang out across the city, calling out its melancholy song to the people. Once, twice, thrice, the bell sounded, and three times again. The deep clangor echoed across the stone walls of the battlements, down the cobblestone roads, and above the heads of the darkly clad populace. One by one, they turned their faces to the stone tower. A great hush and a suppressed shudder rippled through the masses. The three bells of war continued to ring heavily in the air. Heads were bowed, brows grimly creased and mouths set to hard frowns. The inevitable had reached them, as sure as the waking dawn.

A piercing cry joined in with the tolling of the bell. On outstretched wings, a messenger hawk soared above the lofty outer walls. Battling gravity, it beat its wings vigorously, swooping up above the keep and towards the inner ward of the castle. It appraised its warden with another screech as it flew into the aviary, extending its laden foot. The hawk wrangler quickly removed the parchment message and skimmed it. Muttering an oath, he departed, running to find his superior. The hawk shrieked after his retreating steps, indignant for lack of praise or dinner. Lifting a wing, it began to preen, unaware of the turmoil that was soon to follow the reception of its message.

Several floors higher, a distressed, red-robed king paced about in one of his receiving rooms. His disheveled, grey and brown hair darkened at the hair line with sweat as he strode between marbled columns, and he had begun to habitually scratch his beard again. The golden circlet upon his head glinted in the harsh morning light streaming through the windows. His heavy boots thudded loudly on the stone floor, and then suddenly stopped when he heard the bell begin its toll. Some of the color drained from his face with the third metal peal, and he staggered to the window, staring out incredulously.

"The Felbaines? They are here? They marched upon me so soon…" he whispered. Something stirred behind him. From behind a column stepped a tall, slender woman robed in grey. Hooded and veiled, she gazed out with milky white eyes, her silver hair cascading down her front to her waist. Her flawless, porcelain skin was draped in shadow.

"You knew this was coming, Dayneson," she said, addressing the king by his first name. Her voice was quiet and smooth, like satin caught in a misty breeze. Dayneson jumped slightly, startled by her sudden statement. He dared not turn and face the hooded woman. Long had her presence discomforted him. There was something about those cloudy eyes, that metallic hair, that strange, smooth dialect. She was too…unworldly. Sometimes he doubted the validity of her existence.

Muted footsteps behind him broke his reverie. The mysterious woman approached the king on bare feet, her cloak brushing the flagstones.

"Long have the Felbaines been amassing their forces," she began, "They have been sweeping across these dusty plains since the sliver moon's rising, purging the cities of Westernford and Norvadem, setting fire to the southern woodlands—"

"And yet you warned me not?" Dayneson growled, interrupting her. She fell silent, watching him as she stood patiently. The gold circlet glinted as he turned his head. "You relinquished your earthly sight to see what no other can see, and yet for all your ability, you hold your tongue when it is most needed to speak?" She blinked solemnly, still watching him.

He looked back out the window, eyes narrowing at the bleak dawn. "I knew the Felbaines were a remorseless people. I have seen them fight, seen them topple fortresses and wrest a city's power from itself, and seen them squeeze its people dry of all hope." The fingers in his right hand curled into a tight fist. "I did not think they would march this far," he whispered.

"But now you have seen it," the woman replied, breaking her silence. "You have heard the thunder, but ran not from the flashing bolt. It strikes you now where you stand."

"You scold as though I am but a child," the kind grumbled, "and you my chastising mother."

The woman's milky eyes revealed a knowing smile. "Ah, but I am so great your elder, I could have borne your father's father."

"Yet so youthful you appear!" he retorted. In truth, he was absolutely correct; beneath the cloak and veil, not a single line or blotch betrayed her age. She nodded and pushed back her hood, displaying a pair of pointed ears and silver, slanted brows. "It is a part of the deal one makes with a goddess. I gave my humanity and mortality for the foreseeing eye."

Dayneson opened his mouth to reply when there was a sudden rap on the door. Taken aback, the king blinked and called, "Enter." The heavy oak door swung open to reveal the disheveled and panting hawk wrangler. Bowing low, he extended the hawk's message towards them.

"A message…from the scout…in the southern sector…Sire," gasped the wrangler between breaths. Dayneson swept forward and snatched the parchment, anxiously reading its contents while the wrangler eyed the silver haired woman warily. There was a brief moment of uneasy silence. Then, the king abruptly crushed the message in his fists. His dark eyes flashed angrily as he ordered the wrangler to leave at once. Startled, the subject bowed quickly and departed, glancing once more over his shoulder at the nameless woman.

Dayneson returned to the window, his fury mingling with fear and angst. He cast the crumpled parchment to the floor. "They've massacred the town of Maldon." he snarled. "Maldon, Westenford, Norvadem…those cursed Felbains have slashed the limbs of this kingdom. And now they come for the heart."

The woman stepped forward, placing a white hand on his robed shoulder. "It is **a deed of dreadful note**. They have slaughtered the innocent and plagued the righteous." She paused, feeling his muscle tighten under her touch. "Will it end like this?" whispered the king. "Is my reign to close with such **a dismal and fatal end**?" He shut his eyes, bowing his head. "I cannot let it expire this way."

"Then how now shall you respond? What shall you return them? How will Dayneson, son of Daynen, stop this storm and extinguish the fire lit by lightning?"

Silence followed her question. For a moment, the air held still. The sun gazed impassively upon the king as it climbed its eastern stair. Pillars of smoke had begun to rise in the distance. Below the tower, life in the city halted, as motionless as the stone walls surrounding them. The wind did not blow, not even a wisp of it. Like the calm before the storm, all was quiet.

Then, the earth trembled faintly. It shivered intermittently to a slow, steady rhythm. Far away, a horn sounded a long, belligerent bellow. The spell broken, King Dayneson opened his eyes and glared passionately towards the dawn.

"Let them come." He turned and strode to the door, his red robe billowing behind him. "We will fight." The milky eyed woman gazed after him as he swept from the room and the door shuddered closed behind him. Then, draping her hood back over her head, she glanced out the window solemnly. "May the goddesses protect us," she murmured.

Somewhere, far below the king's window, an infant wailed in its cradle. Its mother picked it up gently, wrapping it in blanket as she comforted it. While cooing to her tiny son, she suddenly heard the rhythmic tramp of metal against stone. Putting the baby on her hip, she headed for her front door and opened it. Looking out from her doorway, she witnessed wave of soldiers marched down the street in full armor, setting off for battle. Faces set grimly, they shouldered their weapons, walking on foot or riding atop armored horses. The mother watched them pass by, cheerless and cold.

Something stirred behind her, emitting similar sounds as the marching soldiers. She turned and faced the source, a tall, weathered man: her husband. He, too, wore a protective shell, his breast plate and chain mail gleaming faintly in the light from the doorway. She tried to smile at him, but the feigned happiness failed to reach her eyes. The man bent and embraced her and the child.

"I will return soon," he promised, laying a callused hand open her pale cheek. She took the hand in her own, and, bending his head to hers, she kissed his forehead. The babe whimpered, struggling in its blanket. Its father smiled and pressed his lips briefly to its head. The child stared at him with large, grey eyes, stretching out its tiny hands towards him. The woman shushed and cooed the baby again. Looking up to her husband, she said, "Fight bravely for our son." He nodded and held his wife close for a moment more. Then, he turned and walked out into the street, joining the procession of soldiers. The mother rushed to the doorway to watch him go, a single tear rolling down her white face.

As the soldiers disappeared down the street and the silence settled in, her son wailed again. She turned from the door and returned to his crib. Placing the crying baby back into its safe hold, she sat beside it and began rocking the crib gently. Slowly, the child quieted to a whimper, and was soon asleep. She stroked the side of its face lovingly.

The floor trembled for an instant, then again. It quaked with the same cadence she had just watched her husband depart in. She looked up from the crib, her face grave and her eyes solemn. The distant horn sounded its hostile call. The Felbaines had arrived.

The mother returned her gaze to her slumbering son.

"One day, there will be no more war," she said softly to him. "One day, this storm will pass, and we will have sunlight again. But until then, sleep, my child…"

She reached to the edge of the crib and pulled its cover over, shrouding the babe in the safety of shadow.

"…**sleep in spite of thunder**," she whispered.


End file.
